


Cooking Up Love

by sarahyyy



Series: MasterChef AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, MasterChef AU, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 06:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2377613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyyy/pseuds/sarahyyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I really hate elimination challenges,” Enjolras says with a sigh. </p><p>“Really? I couldn’t tell,” Grantaire says dryly, grinning at him.</p><p>(Or, the MasterChef AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cooking Up Love

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously heavily inspired by S4 of MasterChef Australia. This whole fic is so self-indulgent, I AM SO SORRY.
> 
> For my Chickens: Beth, Cass, and Sere. <3

**(WEEK ONE)**

There is an unspoken rule that the first person you share your cooking bench with ends up being your bench-mate for the duration of both your stay in the competition, and Enjolras is secretly glad for that rule, because the second time they step into the MasterChef kitchen, Grantaire just settles into the same cooking bench they shared the first time, and grins at Enjolras when Enjolras joins him.

“I didn’t annoy enough with the random, mid-challenge tastings the first time?” he asks, crooking a grin. 

“I figured it couldn’t get any worse than the first time,” Enjolras says easily.

“That’s hurtful,” Grantaire says. “And also a challenge. Which I accept. I shall endeavour to be more annoying than the first time.”

Enjolras shakes his head, amused, and doesn’t get to reply because Javert starts speaking towards the front.

It’s an invention box challenge today, and Enjolras is already excited to cook, already thrumming with the anticipation of finding out what ingredient they get to experiment with today. The core ingredient turns out to be beef, and he immediately thinks about making a beef green curry.

He is midway through his prep when Valjean comes over to talk to Grantaire. He means not to listen in on their conversation, but he is genuinely curious to know what Grantaire is cooking, and is suitably impressed when he hears that Grantaire is going to make cottage pie. It’s a dish that few people would attempt to make at this stage of the competition, because everyone knows that Javert is ridiculously picky about his cottage pie.

“The bottom three go into an elimination test today,” Valjean says. “Are you going to be one of them?”

“Definitely not, Chef,” Grantaire says easily. 

Valjean smiles. “Who do you think might be at risk of elimination?” 

The question makes Grantaire pause midway chopping his vegetables. 

“Enjolras,” he says eventually, and Enjolras turns over to stare at Grantaire, indignant, ready to say something in defence, before he catches the wink Grantaire sends him.

“Annoying enough yet?” Grantaire asks when Valjean walks away to check on Bahorel at the back.

“I’m making you cook me dinner for the entire week when I win this challenge,” Enjolras mutters.

“ _If_ you win,” Grantaire says.

“Is that a challenge?” Enjolras asks, and thinks to himself that this isn’t completely unfamiliar. They’ve done this before already — only once, but it’s enough to make it feel like a comforting routine. 

It’s…nice that they already have the beginnings of a routine. 

He hopes Grantaire stays around.

“Everything is a challenge with you,” Grantaire says and dashes past Enjolras to grab a fresh pan.

—

**(WEEK TWO)**

“Alright,” Courfeyrac says, settling down on Enjolras’ bed next to Enjolras, and Enjolras barely manages to stop himself from groaning out loud. “Grantaire.”

“I have nothing to say,” Enjolras says, and presses a pillow to his face. He wonders how hard it would be to try to suffocate himself. 

“You like him,” Courfeyrac concludes, and Enjolras pulls the pillow away from his face for long enough to make a face at him, because how the hell is that the conclusion that Courfeyrac came to? Enjolras hasn’t even said anything yet. “You want to make him omelettes in the morning and cook him dinner every night. You _like_ him.”

“I share a cooking bench with him,” Enjolras corrects.

“And a room,” Courfeyrac reminds him, which he doesn’t have to, because Enjolras only shares a room with Grantaire because Courfeyrac swapped rooms with Grantaire to room with Combeferre instead.

Enjolras also shares a bathroom with Grantaire, and has already walked in on him in the shower once because of course Grantaire doesn’t have the habit of locking the bathroom door, but that isn’t information he is going to voluntarily give to Courfeyrac. 

“I have nothing to say on this subject,” Enjolras repeats.

“Okay, then,” Courfeyrac says, but he shuffles closer to Enjolras, and the mischievous glint in his eyes doesn’t go away. “We’ll look at this from the other perspective, then. Grantaire’s been flirting. _He_ likes _you_.”

Enjolras feels his cheeks heat up. “No, he doesn’t,” he says, a token protest even though he knows he should say something noncommittal, something neutral, something that doesn’t betray how flustered he feels by this (newish) information. He’s been wondering if Grantaire could possibly be interested in him, and he’s never been particularly good at telling with these things, so it’s good that Courfeyrac is letting him know now.

“Yes, he does,” Courfeyrac says, and grins softly. “Thank you for confirming that you like him too.”

Enjolras throws his pillow at Courfeyrac. “I do not-”

Courfeyrac shushes him before he can finish his sentence. “Yes, you do, Enjolras,” he says, and fixes Enjolras with his best _I am your best friend, you are not allowed to lie to me_ face. 

Enjolras has known Courfeyrac his entire life, and he has never lied to Courfeyrac. He isn’t about to start now.

“Yes,” he says, and heaves out a sigh. “Yes, okay, I do. A little.”

Courfeyrac lets out a whoop of joy and throws himself at Enjolras, gangly limbs and all, knocking him flat onto his bed. 

Grantaire walks in at this precise moment, yawning a little, arms stretched over his head, shirt riding up so the hints of the tattoo on his hip is showing. He freezes when he catches sight of Courfeyrac and Enjolras, and Enjolras isn’t really sure if he’s just imagining the flash of disappointment flashing over Grantaire’s face.

“Should I come back later?” he asks.

“Nope,” Courfeyrac says happily and shifts to make room on Enjolras’ bed. Enjolras already has a bad feeling about the next words coming out of Courfeyrac’s mouth. “I’m declaring it the National Hug Enjolras Day. You should come join us.”

Enjolras is going to kill Courfeyrac.

“Come on, Grantaire, help me spread the love,” Courfeyrac continues, when Grantaire blinks hesitantly at them.

He arches his eyebrows at Enjolras, and Enjolras realises that Grantaire is asking for his permission. A rush a warmth settles in his chest, and he wants to prod at it, to analyse it, to make sense of it, but Grantaire is still waiting for him to say something. 

“You might as well,” Enjolras tells him, and definitely doesn’t blush when Courfeyrac lets out a laugh. “Courf is not going to let you out of it.”

“No, I am not,” Courfeyrac confirms, and Grantaire gets up onto Enjolras’ bed, and settles against the other side of Enjolras, mimicking Courfeyrac’s position and curling himself up against Enjolras’ side.

“This is nice,” Grantaire says, eyes drooping shut. 

“Mm hmm,” Courfeyrac says. “You should do it all the time. Enjolras is very comfortable, and he never says no to a good cuddle.”

“I’ll note that down somewhere,” Grantaire mumbles sleepily, and Enjolras should tell him to go back to his own bed to catch some sleep, but Grantaire is right, this _is_ nice, and it wouldn’t hurt just to indulge in it a little.

Grantaire lets out a little sigh against Enjolras’ arm, and Enjolras feels smugness radiating from Courfeyrac more than he actually sees Courfeyrac’s smile. 

He is still going to kill Courfeyrac, but maybe a little less horribly. 

—

**(WEEK THREE)**

The Chicken nickname comes about almost out of nowhere.

They’re back in the MasterChef house and Enjolras is attempting to make a decent risotto in the kitchen for dinner. Grantaire is in the kitchen too, making some kind of yogurt concoction that theoretically sounds like it shouldn’t work, but is already starting to take shape and look actually surprisingly enticing. 

He’s still dutifully stirring his risotto when Grantaire says, “Hey Chicken, could you pass me a clean spatula?”

“Chicken?” Enjolras asks, frowning a little even as he leaves his pan on the stovetop to rummage through the drawers for a new spatula for Grantaire. 

“Mm hmm,” Grantaire hums and takes the spatula from Enjolras and stirs in what looks like passionfruit juice, and then passes Enjolras a spoonful of his yogurt concoction to test. “Chicken,” he repeats. 

Enjolras tries Grantaire’s dish. “Too acidic,” he tells Grantaire, and Grantaire makes a note in his notebook. “Why chicken?”

Grantaire smiles. “I feel like I shouldn’t tell you, but if I do, I’m 95% sure we’ll get an actual demonstration of your likeness to chickens. I’m really conflicted now, Enjolras. Look what you’ve done!”

Enjolras narrows his eyes at him. “I will throw this spoon at you, Grantaire, don’t think I won’t.”

Grantaire laughs. “You do this thing when you’re angry, or when you’re kind of speechless about things,” Grantaire explains. “You, well, squawk. Like a chicken.” 

Enjolras makes a noise of indignation and Grantaire’s eyes light up. “There,” he crows out, laughing. “ _Chicken_.” 

Enjolras throws his spoon at him and returns to his risotto before it dries out. He doesn’t tell Grantaire that he kind of likes it that Grantaire has a nickname for him, doesn’t tell Grantaire to keep calling him _Chicken_ because it makes him feel special, but Grantaire doesn’t really stop doing it, and even if Enjolras has to try his hardest to muster a frown every time Grantaire does it, that’s still worth the flutter in his stomach every time Grantaire grins and calls him _Chicken_. 

It’s not a thing, it’s not a problem. Enjolras has it all under control. It’s not a problem if it’s under control. 

—

**(WEEK FOUR)**

There is something off with his batter, and he doesn’t really know what it is. It’s good, the flavours are there, but something is fundamentally _off_ about it, like it could be better, like it’s on its way to being The Batter but isn’t quite there yet, and it bothers Enjolras. 

He checks the clock. He would be cutting it close, but he has time to make another batter. He wants to win this mystery box challenge, he _should_ make another batter, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. 

He chances a peek at Grantaire, who is whistling as he works. He’s whisking egg whites, making a meringue, probably. This is the mystery box challenge made for Grantaire - he nails all the desserts he makes, and he probably knows what’s wrong with Enjolras’ batter, if he would only just ask him. 

He does another tasting of his batter, winces at the mediocrity of it, and scoops some onto a spoon and heads to Grantaire’s side of the cooking bench, looking at the stuff Grantaire’s left everywhere and wondering where he should leave his spoon so as to not get in Grantaire’s way. 

“Hey, Grantaire, could you taste this for me when you have the chance-” 

He barely gets to finish his sentence, because Grantaire crosses over to him quickly and wraps his fingers around Enjolras’ wrist, guiding the spoon to his mouth. Enjolras doesn’t quiver when Grantaire lets out a small noise of appreciation, lips still wrapped around Enjolras’ spoon, but only barely. 

“That’s good,” Grantaire tells him after he draws the spoon out of his mouth slowly. 

Enjolras can feel cameras on them, knows that the cameras are rolling, knows that they’re being filmed, knows that he’s staring at Grantaire and that he is hiding nothing, but he cannot bring himself to look away. 

His skin tingles where Grantaire is touching him, and there is a second where Enjolras doesn’t have enough words in his repertoire to explain to Grantaire that he thinks that there is something wrong with his batter. “But-”

“It could do without the cinnamon,” Grantaire finishes easily, letting go of Enjolras’ wrist, and oh, _oh_ , Enjolras likes him _so fucking much_. “You have just enough time to make a new batch. I know it looks like I’m going to win this challenge, but don’t go easy on me!”

“Beat me in something that isn’t a dessert challenge,” Enjolras says in the well-worn tones of someone who has had the same argument way too many times, focusing on expressing his exasperation, because the other option would be to cross the floor and _kiss Grantaire_ , and that’s not something he can do, “and then we’ll talk.”

Grantaire doesn’t disappoint, just laughs and says, as he always does, “Beat me in a dessert challenge, and then you can say what you want, Chicken.”

He rolls his eyes and focuses on making a new batch of batter while Valjean comes up to Grantaire to ask about his dish. He mostly tunes them out until he hears Javert ask Grantaire, “So who do you think is at risk of losing the challenge and going into an elimination today?”

“Easy,” Grantaire says, as he always does, and Enjolras can already feel the corner of his lips tip up in a smile. “Enjolras, of course.”

Grantaire comes up to Enjolras’ side of the bench after the tastings are over and the judges have convened to discuss the results, and picks up one of Enjolras’ banana fritters. “This is good,” Grantaire says after demolishing his first fritter. “Fuck, wow, this is _very_ good.” He picks up another fritter. “I want to eat all of it. This is the thing I want to eat for the rest of my life.”

Enjolras can feel his cheeks heat up. He doesn’t say what he really wants to say, which is that he would be fine with making Grantaire banana fritters for the rest of his life, bites down on his tongue to make sure that the words don’t escape him.

He says instead, after a pause, “I can’t tell if you’re messing with me. Have you even seen _your_ plate? It’s gorgeous.”

“The red from the sorbet sets off the golden-brown of the pastry really well, doesn’t it?” His eyes sweep over Enjolras, at the red shirt and red canvas shoes he’s wearing, smiles softly and says, “I was inspired.”

He wants to step in close to Grantaire, wants to cup Grantaire’s face in his hands, wants to kiss Grantaire and keep kissing Grantaire until they’re both breathless from it, and the scariest part is that it _feels_ like it would be the right thing to do, it feels like it’s what Grantaire wants too.

Enjolras takes a step forwards. “Grantaire, I-”

He is interrupted by Valjean, Javert and Fantine coming back with the results. The moment is broken, and Enjolras steps back to his side of the bench, back ramrod straight, even though he does keep sneaking peeks at Grantaire from the corner of his eye. 

He feels…disappointed, for one, and also a little bit relieved. He isn’t sure what would’ve happened if he’d just gone with his instinct. He isn't even sure if he isn’t reading Grantaire wrong. Sometimes he catches the looks Grantaire gives him, slightly wistful, a little fond, and he thinks that he knows what’s going on, but Grantaire is friendly and easy to talk to, and all the other contestants love him too. Sure, he seems closer to Enjolras than he does anyone else, but that’s because they share a room and also a cooking bench. It’s only to be expected.

He’s never been so unsure of anything in his life, and it’s _terrifying_. 

He focuses on the things he is sure instead — like the fact that his banana fritters taste great, and will probably be the best sweet dish he puts out in the competition. If this doesn’t get him to top three, he pretty sure nothing else will. 

He shakes his head in amusement when the judges call out Grantaire’s name and Grantaire turns over to grin at him, laughs when Marius’ name is the next to get called and he doesn’t realise because he hadn’t thought it would be possible, and feels his shoulders sag in relief when he gets called out next.

“Three very different dishes,” Fantine notes, smiling as she takes in the three of them. “Three very different flavours. We had a really hard time choosing.”

“There wasn’t really a clear winner,” Valjean agrees, and Marius laughs nervously. “Do you not agree, Marius?”

“I’ve seen their dishes, and I’ve seen mine,” Marius says with a helpless shrug. “It’s alright, though. I’m just happy to be in the top three.”

“Grantaire,” Javert says, “this is your challenge to win. Are you feeling the pressure?” 

“A little,” Grantaire says, and knocks his shoulders against Enjolras’. Enjolras grins, because there’s no way he can _not grin_ at that. “Enjolras and I have a bet on him not giving me a run for my money in this challenge.”

Fantine smiles at him. “Enjolras, you’re not a dessert person, are you?” 

“I’ve been taking pointers from Grantaire,” he admits, and fights to keep a straight face when Grantaire turns over to him, startled at the accreditation. “So if I win this challenge, it’s basically his win too. He can’t lose.” 

Grantaire wins the mystery box challenge with his fancy deconstructed lemon meringue tart with raspberry sorbet, and Enjolras isn’t at all bothered by it. Like Javert said, it was basically Grantaire’s challenge to win. 

And he loves it when Grantaire wins challenges, loves the self-satisfied grin that stays on his face long after the challenge, loves the way the corner of his eyes crinkle when he lets out a customary whoop at winning. Most of all, he loves the way Grantaire always draws him into a hug after, pressing his face into Enjolras’ neck and squeezing him tightly. It feels like a reward to Enjolras, even when he’s not the one who wins. 

This time, Grantaire says softly in his ear, “I’ll think about you when I’m picking the core ingredient.”

Enjolras smiles at that. “Don’t go easy on me.”

Grantaire’s grin is wide when he pulls away and starts walking away from Enjolras and towards the judges. “I never do!” 

—

**(WEEK FIVE)**

The packing is the worst.

Enjolras doesn’t make a habit of getting into an elimination challenge, but team challenges aren’t something that he can control. He could do his best in it and still lose the challenge. He knows it wasn’t his fault they lost the challenge earlier today because every single one of his steaks were _perfect_ , but it doesn’t make packing any easier.

“You need to stop looking like your world just ended,” Grantaire says from where he is haphazardly throwing his clothes into his luggage, rolling his eyes a little at Enjolras. “You’re going to be just fine, Chicken.”

“I really hate elimination challenges,” Enjolras says with a sigh. 

“Really? I couldn’t tell,” Grantaire says dryly, grinning at him.

Enjolras grins back at him in spite of the horrible feeling in his pit, and Grantaire dumps a handful of toiletries in his bag and makes his way over to Enjolras’ bed instead. He makes a show of rolling his eyes at Enjolras’ immaculately packed bag ( _“I don’t know why you even bother. There’s literally no way you’re going to leave.”_ ) before his eyes light up and he plucks Enjolras’ favourite red shirt out of his bag and throws it on his own bed instead.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks. “If you’re going to undo all my efforts at packing-”

Grantaire shushes him. “I’m wearing it tomorrow for luck,” he says nonchalantly, like it’s a normal thing for him to be wearing Enjolras’ shirt, like they’re the kind of friends who just rummage through each other’s clothes for something to wear, like he isn’t aware of Enjolras’ crush on him growing more and more out of hand with every day they spend together. Grantaire keeps his eyes on Enjolras, and he looks… _cautious_ , for some reason that Enjolras doesn’t have enough information to decipher. “You can have it back when we’re both safe from elimination,” Grantaire says, and it’s not a question, except for the way Grantaire cocks his head slightly as if to ask _are you going to stop me?_ , and Enjolras wants to laugh, because Grantaire could ask for all his shirts and Enjolras would probably give them to him.

“Okay,” he says, glad that his voice comes out even. And then, more as an afterthought than anything else, “If you’re going to steal my shirt for luck, I want one of yours too.”

Grantaire looks mildly surprised at that —rightfully so, because Enjolras himself is surprised that he said that as well— before he nods and starts to grin at Enjolras again.

Enjolras makes his way to Grantaire’s open luggage with purpose. He knows what he wants, and the moment he spies it peeking out from the bottom corner of Grantaire’s suitcase, he pulls it out slowly and turns to gauge Grantaire’s reaction. 

Grantaire swallows. “Are you sure you want that one, Chicken?” he asks quietly, staring at Enjolras, and Enjolras nods. 

Grantaire’s favourite green t-shirt is threadbare and slightly discoloured with age, with faint paint stains covering various parts of the t-shirt. It’s not something that Grantaire wears out, but he wears it all the time in the house, lounges around in it, sleeps in it sometimes. Enjolras has always wondered if it feels as soft as it looks, and he’s pleased to note that it is. 

Grantaire is still staring at him, and Enjolras’ grip on his t-shirt tightens. Grantaire feels a lot closer than he was just moments ago.

“For luck,” he says hoarsely, and Grantaire’s gaze darts to his mouth.

“For luck,” Grantaire echoes, licking his lips, and Enjolras _wants_. 

He wants to throw all caution to the wind and loop his arms around Grantaire’s neck, wants to press his lips to Grantaire’s and learn for himself if Grantaire tastes like the M&Ms he seems to always be popping into his mouth, wants to see if their bodies would fit against each other’s perfectly.

He wants _Grantaire_ , wants him so much his heart aches just thinking about it, but Grantaire is a good friend, and what they have right now is fun and easy, and Enjolras doesn’t want to ruin that, so he steps back, keeps moving backwards until the back of his knees hit his own bed and smiles at Grantaire softly before he turns back to packing. 

He feels Grantaire’s eyes on him, can see Grantaire staring at him from the peripherals of his eyes, and hopes that he hasn’t been too obvious about his affections for Grantaire even as he hopes that Grantaire knows and returns his feelings. He’s gotten very good at balancing on the fence when it comes to Grantaire. 

They’re both quiet throughout packing, Enjolras focusing on neatly stacking his clothes together and Grantaire uncharacteristically doing the same. The air between them feels different, feels _charged_ , and Enjolras isn’t sure if he’s just making it up in his mind, so he tries to ignore it as best as he can. 

It isn’t until they’re both in their respective beds that the silence is broken. 

Enjolras sleeps on his side, always has, and he’s used to facing Grantaire’s bed as he does, and it’s normally not an issue, because Grantaire sleeps on his back, and is usually unbothered by Enjolras apparently staring at him while he sleeps, but tonight Grantaire has rolled onto his side, and is staring right back at Enjolras. 

His heartbeat picks up, the fondness he feels for Grantaire overflowing with every sleepy blink Grantaire takes.

“Good luck for tomorrow, E,” Grantaire says quietly after awhile, and smiles softly at him. 

Enjolras wants to say _you’re beautiful, I can’t stop looking at you_ , wants to say _I want to kiss you until we’re both breathless_ , wants to say god, _I really fucking like you_ , but he lets out a long exhale and settles for, “You too. Don’t go home tomorrow, R.”

Grantaire huffs out a laugh. “I’m not ready to leave yet. _You’re_ still here,” he says, and flicks the light switch off before Enjolras can even begin to interpret the look on Grantaire’s face.

—

**(WEEK SIX)**

It’s absolute chaos on the Blue Team. Over the other side of the room, Enjolras can hear Montparnasse and Eponine yelling at each other, and when he turns away from his pasta sauce to look over at the commotion on the other side, he sees Grantaire standing awkwardly to the side while everyone else is yelling at each other. 

Grantaire looks… _overwhelmed_. He’s always at his best when the people around him are at theirs because he’s learnt to take in the energy and the spirit from them and use it for himself, and right now, he just looks ridiculously lost. It makes Enjolras irrationally angry that Eponine had first pick as team captain, and stole Grantaire for herself.

He looks down quickly at his pasta sauce, walks over to the oven to make sure his meatballs are cooking right, and goes to check on Cosette’s pasta dough, and then quickly checks in with everyone else at their stations. Everyone is doing what they’re supposed to be doing, it’s all looking good, and the food tastes great. They probably have this challenge in the bag.

…which is why he’s pretty sure his team won’t miss him for a few minutes. 

He crosses over to the Blue Team’s kitchen quickly and breaks up Eponine and Montparnasse’s screaming match. He learns that they’re arguing over what entrée to serve, and barely resists from rolling his eyes before he calls for a vote. Three votes to the baked prawns, four to the ceviche; problem solved, simple. Eponine and Montparnasse probably shouldn’t work together, so he quickly swaps tasks around and reallocates everyone to their new positions. The whole thing takes only about five minutes, but the Blue Team is up and running now, and Enjolras feels a small sense of pride at his work.

He’s just about to move back to the Red Team when Grantaire barrels into him and hugs him, wraps his arms around Enjolras’ waist and clings on tightly, and says, “Fuck, Enjolras, you’re fucking incredible. I can’t believe you did that for the team.”

Grantaire is warm against him, and he’s letting out shuddery breathes against Enjolras’ neck, and Enjolras ends up blurting out the first thing he thinks to say, which is, “I didn’t do it for them.”

He feels Grantaire stiffen against him and oh, of course he’s blown the whole thing up, of course Grantaire doesn’t feel the same way about him. Why would he? Grantaire’s type is loud and boisterous and fun to be around, and Enjolras is not that kind of guy. Of course Grantaire doesn’t feel the same. 

He’s about to pull away from Grantaire when Grantaire’s arms tighten around him. “You can’t say things like that, Chicken,” Grantaire says, voice slightly muffled by the way he’s pressing his face to Enjolras’ shoulder. “You can’t _not know_ ,” he continues, and squeezes Enjolras once more before pulling away. 

Enjolras should be more concerned about how he immediately misses Grantaire’s proximity, but he isn’t because he’s trying to make sense of Grantaire’s words instead. “Know what?” he asks, frowning.

Grantaire laughs, and he sounds a little incredulous. “That-”

“Enjolras, something’s wrong with the meatballs!” Courfeyrac calls out at that precise moment, and Enjolras wants to stay, wants to finish this conversation with Grantaire, because it feels important, feels _pivotal_ , but Grantaire is already pushing him towards the Red Team’s kitchen. 

They don’t revisit the conversation that night back in the MasterChef house, because Grantaire is packing his bags, and Enjolras doesn’t feel like it’s the right time to talk about it. Instead, he settles for picking up a random cookbook, and reading recipes out loud to Grantaire, scoffing at unnecessarily pretentious dishes, and letting Grantaire suggest better alternatives to ingredients. 

When they’re both lying down in bed and the lights have been turned off, Enjolras says, because it’s practically ritualistic by now, “Don’t go home tomorrow, R.”

“I’m not ready to leave yet,” Grantaire says dutifully. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he adds after a beat. 

“I don’t want to get rid of you,” Enjolras says truthfully. 

Grantaire is quiet for long enough that Enjolras thinks that he’s dozed off. 

“Good,” he says softly finally. 

“Good,” Enjolras echoes, and closes his eyes. 

—

**(WEEK SEVEN)**

“I don’t know why you’re acting like you don’t know I’m going to make you come down and cook with me,” Grantaire says, rolling his eyes as he buttons up his chef’s jacket.

“You need to look at the core ingredient and try to parse out everyone’s strengths before you decide on which two people you want to cook with you,” Enjolras tells him. “You can’t just pick me just because.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to pick you _just because_ ,” Grantaire says, grinning at him. “My immunity challenge to muck up, my prerogative.” 

Enjolras gives him an unimpressed look. “I don’t have to be down there cooking with you to help. I’ll yell at you from up the balcony, you know I will.”

“But I don’t want you to yell at me from the balcony,” Grantaire says, almost petulant, and Enjolras has to smile at that. “Winning an immunity pin wouldn’t be as fun without you next to me.”

Enjolras’ heart thuds loudly in his chest. 

“Okay, then,” he says. “Whatever you need from me,” he tells Grantaire. The words feel heavy with a deeper meaning the moment they leave his lips, and he should be concerned by how unbothered he is by it, but he isn’t. 

Grantaire’s eyes are soft even though his lips quirk up in in a small, playful smile. “Whatever I need?”

Enjolras returns his smile. “Whatever you need,” he confirms.

“Give us a good luck kiss, then, Chicken” Grantaire says with a wide grin, and leans back against the wall. 

Grantaire means it as a joke, Enjolras _knows_ Grantaire means it as a joke, because in the seven weeks he’s been sharing a room with Grantaire, he’s gotten really good at reading Grantaire, so there’s no excuse for the way he steps close to Grantaire, cups his hand around the back of Grantaire’s neck and kisses him. 

For a moment, for one long excruciating moment, Grantaire doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, and Enjolras wants to backpedal, wants to step back and laugh the kiss off as a joke, but he stays where he is, one hand on the back of Grantaire’s neck, the other resting gently on Grantaire’s hip, his lips against Grantaire’s, hoping for _something_.

He isn’t disappointed; Grantaire let’s out a shaky exhale against Enjolras’ lips and then he’s pressing into the kiss, firmer, surer, and Enjolras ends up tangling his fingers into Grantaire’s hair, moaning at the soft brush of Grantaire’s tongue against his. He kisses Grantaire for as long as he can manage, because one long kiss is still _one kiss_. He wants to make the best out of this one kiss, because he isn’t sure if there’ll be a chance for more, if Grantaire even _wants_ more. 

When they pull away, Grantaire’s pupils are blown wide, his lips are swollen and red and slick with spit, and Enjolras desperately wants to press himself against Grantaire again to kiss him some more, wants to peel the chef’s jacket off Grantaire and learn all the ways to make Grantaire shudder against him, wants to drown himself in nothing but _Grantaire_ , but he summons all the self-control he has in him and takes a step away from Grantaire.

“There,” he says hoarsely. “Good luck.”

Grantaire stares at him, eyes glassy and lips parted. “What was-”

He is interrupted by a knock on their door, and Combeferre’s voice coming through saying _Enjolras, we need to go now_ , and a part of Enjolras wants to laugh, because this keeps happening to them, they keep having unfinished conversations, and he doesn’t know if he’s glad for it, or if he’s supposed to take it as a sign from a higher being. 

He reaches out, smooths Grantaire’s jacket down, and turns to leave their room. He pauses when he reaches the door and turns back to look at Grantaire, who is still staring at him, feet rooted where Enjolras left him. “Win the pin, R,” he says, and smiles.

He doesn’t wait to see if Grantaire says anything, because he’s bared his heart to Grantaire now, and he wants Grantaire to have some time to think about it. He spends the ride to the MasterChef kitchen replaying the kiss in his head, scrutinising every second, trying to see if it went right, trying to see if anything went _wrong_. He still isn’t sure if he should’ve waited a little longer before he did anything about his feelings, but he knows there’s nothing to be done about that now. He’s got all his cards on the table, and it’s up to Grantaire now. 

The sound of Courfeyrac singing along to horrible pop music in the backseat helps to ease his tension a little, and he feels a little more grounded, a little more at ease when he gets to the MasterChef kitchen.

His relief doesn’t last long. 

Grantaire is up against one of the top chefs of the city today, and as with all immunity challenge cook-offs, he gets to pick two other contestants to cook with him. Grantaire’s first pick is Musichetta, but that doesn’t surprise Enjolras, because the core ingredient that Grantaire picked today is ginger, and he must have be thinking of going down the Asian route, because Musichetta is brilliant with Asian flavours and would make a gorgeous main dish. Fish, probably, which narrows down the number of entrées Enjolras could probably try to make. He could probably try making a slammer, cure some scallops—

He only realises when Cosette makes a small noise of surprise beside him, shooting him a concerned look before heading down to the floor, that Grantaire doesn’t call his name.

“No Enjolras today,” Javert is commenting down on the floor.

Grantaire shrugs and Enjolras feels his chest clench tightly. He wants to look away, but he forces himself not to, to try his best to look unaffected instead. 

“I have a very clear idea of what I want to serve today, and Musichetta and Cosette are perfect for it,” Grantaire says, and he’s not looking up at Enjolras, not acknowledging Enjolras at all, and Enjolras feels his sick to his stomach at the thought of having ruined their friendship. “I want to win this pin. I’m not taking any chances.”

“Alright then,” Fantine says, and smiles up kindly at Enjolras. “We’ll leave you to the cooking. We look forward to tasting the dishes. Good luck, Grantaire!”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre both move to either sides of him as the judges clear out of the kitchen and Feuilly takes over. Enjolras has a lot of respect for Feuilly and his legendary palette and knife skills, but he can’t make himself focus enough to listen to anything Feuilly is saying right now.

“Did the both of you have a tiff?” Courfeyrac asks quietly, one hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. 

Enjolras swallows and struggles for an answer. “I don’t know,” he settles on eventually. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Combeferre asks. He doesn’t look over to Enjolras, because he knows that Enjolras hates scrutiny when he’s upset, and Enjolras is very grateful to have them both with him in this competition, he is, and telling them about the kiss with Grantaire —about his _feelings_ for Grantaire— would probably make him feel better, but he can’t bring himself to.

It feels like something he wants to keep to himself, wants to hold closely to himself, not because he wants to contain it, but because he wants Grantaire to be the first one to hear it, and he hasn’t said it to Grantaire yet, not really.

So he shakes his head minutely and trusts that Combeferre and Courfeyrac would leave the matter be until he’s ready to talk about it.

The next ninety minutes fly by in a flurry. Enjolras has never really had the chance to watch Grantaire work when he’s in the right headspace before - he’s normally always cooking beside Grantaire, always running on the same clock Grantaire is, and it doesn’t really leave him with time to just look. He makes up for that by keeping his eyes on Grantaire the whole ninety minutes, staring at the way Grantaire’s brows furrow with concentration as he pipes icing onto his plate, feeling his heart pound in his chest when Grantaire grins sharply as he sharpens his knife, aching to reach out to brush the sweat off Grantaire’s forehead. 

Grantaire looks like he’s having fun, and Enjolras has to replay Grantaire’s last immunity challenge in his head to try to remember if Grantaire had been smiling as much as he has been today, with Cosette and Musichetta beside him, and feels a sharp pang of disappointment in himself when he realises that he can’t remember. 

Grantaire normally looks up at the balcony to talk to Joly, Bossuet, or anyone else who wants to chat. He does this when he’s cooking for immunity, does this when he’s cooking in elimination challenges, and Enjolras always ends up having to remind him that he’s cooking against the clock and should probably redirect his focus. 

“Don’t get jealous, Apollo. You know you’re my favourite,” Grantaire replied one time, and Enjolras had scowled at him, but his cheeks felt warm and Grantaire had grinned back.

Today, however, outside of checking up on Cosette and Musichetta, and to occasionally answer Feuilly’s questions regarding his menu, he hasn’t really spoken. He doesn’t look up at the balcony, not once. Enjolras knows because Enjolras hasn’t stopped looking at Grantaire since the challenge started. 

It occurs to Enjolras that Grantaire is trying his best to avoid him, and he quickly pushes the thought out of his head. He tries to focus instead on the clock, and that is a mistake too, because he wants to yell out a reminder to Grantaire that he has only a minute left, and has to hold himself back, and let Courfeyrac do it instead.

The dishes Grantaire, Cosette, and Musichetta have put up look gorgeous. Grantaire’s dessert, in particular, draws Enjolras’ eyes, and he’s not even being bias. It’s easily one of the prettiest plates Grantaire has ever put up, and Enjolras spares a moment to wonder if maybe Grantaire works better without him around after all, if maybe he’s been holding Grantaire back. 

Grantaire could win this competition.

He wouldn’t mind if Grantaire wins the competition. 

He spends the time during the judges’ tasting listening to the rest of the people speculate the results of the challenge. The other contestants’ general opinion seems to be that it would be a really close call, but Grantaire would probably not leave with the golden pin. 

Enjolras doesn’t really know if Grantaire would win today, but he wants him to. He really, _really_ wants him to. The past two immunity challenges (Grantaire’s first one, and also his own), Enjolras was right beside Grantaire, the both of them shifting nervously together, and it feels odd that it isn’t the case today. 

He’s only been away from Grantaire for two hours and he’s already missed him, he realises, and has to fight to keep the sharp pang in his chest down, because he might’ve already ruined the easy friendship between them by kissing Grantaire, he probably has to start keeping his distance now. 

“They’re back out!” Jehan says excitedly, when the judges come back into the kitchen, and they all return to their spot on the balcony. 

“Grantaire, how are you feeling?” Valjean asks, smiling. 

“Strangely calm,” Grantaire replies. “I have a feeling today is going to be a good day.”

Fantine grins at him. “We’ll find out now, shall we?”

Cosette’s entrée wins. Musichetta’s main loses. 

Enjolras’ heart is in his throat when Javert says, “It all comes down to the dessert. How confident are you now, Grantaire?” 

Even from where he’s standing, Enjolras can see the way Grantaire’s lips stretch into a huge grin. 

“Very,” Grantaire says, and turns over to address the chefs standing by him. “No offence, of course. I just have that feeling.”

Fantine is shaking her head, smiling softly, and it’s as good a sign as any. 

“The dessert we liked the best,” Javert says, “is the ginger-lime candied apple with the honey mousse. Congratulations, Grantaire, the golden pin is yours!”

Enjolras watches as Grantaire picks Cosette up and spins her around, before setting her down and doing the same to Musichetta. He watches as they both plant a sloppy, wet kiss on each side of his cheeks together. He watches the way Grantaire’s smile lights his eyes as Javert puts the pin on his apron. He watches, and feels a dull ache in his heart, because he wants to be down there, wants to be the one Grantaire is sharing all his joy with. 

He hangs back while everyone is congratulating Grantaire, and perhaps that is a mistake, because everyone ends up filing out of the kitchen and into the cars waiting to take them back to the MasterChef House quickly, as if they’d planned it beforehand, leaving just the both of them to share one car. 

He gets into the backseat of the car and waits for Grantaire to take the front. He’s going to stay quiet the entire car ride back home, he’ll just pretend that he’s in the car alone. It’s a sound strategy, it’ll work. 

Only, Grantaire doesn’t go along with his plan, and slips into the backseat next to Enjolras instead. Enjolras can see Grantaire looking at him from the corner of his eyes. Grantaire probably wants to talk about the kiss, wants to tell Enjolras no, wants to let Enjolras know that he’s uncomfortable with Enjolras’ feelings for him and ask him to stay away. 

Enjolras’ stomach churns at the thought, and he keeps his eyes firmly glued to the front. He can’t look at Grantaire when Grantaire is breaking his heart, he _can’t_. 

“Congratulations on the win,” Enjolras offers, when it becomes clear that Grantaire is not going to say anything, just stare at him. “You deserved it.”

“You don’t sound happy,” Grantaire says quietly, sounding upset, and Enjolras swallows and turns over to smile at him. 

“I am,” he tells Grantaire, and feels immensely proud of the way his voice doesn’t catch. “I am very happy for you. That dish you served up was beautiful.”

He watches Grantaire work his throat, and can see that he’s searching for words. “I-” Grantaire starts and then trails off. He tries again. “I did it for you.” 

Enjolras blinks. “What?”

“You kissed me. And then you told me to win,” Grantaire says in a rush. “I did. I did because you asked me to. I wanted you to be proud of me.” He swallows. “I wanted you to kiss me again.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire breathes out, and he’s closer now. Enjolras doesn’t really know if he’s closing the distance between them, or if Grantaire is. Maybe they both are. It doesn’t seem important now. “Enjolras, I want-”

Enjolras curls his fingers around Grantaire’s hip, revels in the way it makes him shudder, and tightens his grip on Grantaire. “What do you want, R?” 

He thinks he knows what Grantaire is going to say, thinks he’s prepared for when Grantaire says it, but his breath still catches when Grantaire’s eyes flutter shut and he says, “ _You_.”

He kisses Grantaire. 

Grantaire kisses like he cooks when he’s in the zone, with passion, with single-minded determination, _happy_ , and Enjolras tries to pull him closer, to press himself up against Grantaire, to soak in all of him. Grantaire tastes like ginger, tastes like lime, tastes like apple and honey, and when they eventually pull away from each other’s lips, Enjolras huffs a soft laugh.

“I can see why your dessert won,” he says, and kisses the laugh off Grantaire’s lips.

—

**(WEEK EIGHT)**

Nothing really changes over the weekend.

Except, well, that’s not exactly true. 

They move into one of the empty rooms with a queen-sized bed, and Enjolras goes to bed with Grantaire pressed against his back, and wakes up with his face pressed against Grantaire’s shoulders. He gets to wash Grantaire’s hair for him every morning in the shower. He gets to hold Grantaire’s hand now, to kiss him good morning, to press their foreheads together and just smile at Grantaire for a bit. He gets to try his best not to smile when Courfeyrac and Jehan coos at them.

They take turns making each other breakfast. Grantaire shows Enjolras the correct way to bake bread, and Enjolras teaches Grantaire his grandmother’s secret omelette au fromage recipe. They mostly end up sharing kisses instead of cooking tips in the kitchen instead. It’s domestic in a terribly familiar way, and Enjolras _loves_ it. 

He learns that Grantaire is ticklish, and learns to skim his fingers over the parts where Grantaire is ticklish, because he loves feeling Grantaire grin against his lips. He learns that Grantaire is a blanket hog, and learns to fit himself closely against Grantaire so they can better share the duvet. He learns that Grantaire has wicked, _wicked_ hands, and learns to stifle his moans so that they don’t wake Eponine and Cosette up next door. 

It’s all shaping up to be a good week is what he’s saying. 

And then Javert announces that there will be only one challenge that week — a team challenge with four groups of three. The top two teams will be safe from elimination, the two losing teams will face a pressure test straight after the team challenge with _two_ eliminations. 

Enjolras gets, well, _antsy_. 

“I hate this,” he mutters to Grantaire. 

“You’ll be fine, Chicken,” Grantaire tells him, and brushes the back of his hand against Enjolras’. 

Enjolras wants to reach out to tangle their fingers together, but the cameras are rolling, and they haven’t had the chance to speak to the producers about how much of their relationship they are allowed to show on national television yet, so he settles for knocking his shoulder against Grantaire’s and saying, “I want us _both_ to be fine.”

“We will be,” Grantaire says, and flashes a smile at Enjolras before he moves forward to pick a straw from the lot. 

They don’t end up on the same team, which Enjolras had already expected, but it doesn’t stop him from being irrationally upset that he doesn’t get to cook with Grantaire today. His good mood from the morning has been dampened somewhat, but they are operating a food truck by the beach today, and with Bahorel and Combeferre both on his team, he’s relatively sure that they’ll be able to do great.

“Probably for the better,” Grantaire tells him softly as they’re making their ways to their respective food trucks. “I’d be splitting my focus between cooking and trying my best to keep my hands off you. It’d be a disaster.”

Enjolras feels his cheeks warm, he turns around to make sure that no cameras are focusing on them and then says, “Win the challenge and I’ll let you put your hands wherever you want to.”

He says it mostly because he knows how competitive Grantaire can get with the right incentives, and he really wants to make sure that Grantaire’s team isn’t one of the losing teams today, because he’s pretty sure he’ll worry himself half to death if Grantaire has to go through a pressure test, but the way Grantaire’s eyes darken and his grin grows sharp is a definite plus too. 

“For however long I want?” he asks.

“Wherever you want, for however long you want,” Enjolras confirms, and laughs when Grantaire breaks into a run and catches up with Joly and Eponine, tugging them by the wrists and pulling them along as he runs towards their truck.

Both their teams are safe from the elimination challenge, and when it’s announced that Grantaire, Joly and Eponine were the ones who made the most profit from their food truck, Grantaire lets out a loud peal of laughter and picks Enjolras up by the waist, spinning him around. 

“You look extra happy about winning the team challenge today, Grantaire,” Fantine notes.

Enjolras tries to stop himself from blushing as Grantaire grins widely and says, “Enjolras and I had a bet going on. I’m really looking forwards to collecting my reward.”

He hears someone snort from behind them (Montparnasse, probably), and also hears someone let out a giggle (Bahorel, even though he’ll later deny it), before everyone sobers up and remembers that there’s an upcoming pressure test. 

They lose Courfeyrac and Jehan in the pressure test, and even the fact that they’re going to be flying to Rome for an entire week of challenges does nothing to lift anyone’s spirits. Enjolras is particularly affected by it because Courfeyrac is one of his best friends. They came into the competition together, and had planned to make it to Top Five together.

“I need you here with me in this competition for as long as you can stay,” Enjolras whispers fiercely to Grantaire that night, when they’re both curled up in bed together. 

He knows that Grantaire didn’t come into the competition with the intention of winning it, knows that Grantaire doesn’t even think that he could ever come close to winning it, knows that Grantaire is only here because he got drunk one night and filled in the application form and had been badgered by his coworker at the bakery to actually show up for auditions. He’s here to learn and the idea of getting eliminated doesn’t really do much to scare him, he always says.

And Enjolras loves that Grantaire is cooking in the competition without giving himself too much stress about it, loves his carefree attitude towards challenges and pressure tests, but he also wants to keep Grantaire around for as long as possible. He doesn’t really think it would be easy to make it through the rest of the competition without Grantaire by his side now. 

Grantaire sighs against his neck and leans up to press his lips to the corner of Enjolras’ mouth. “You’re here,” he says, “and that’s the best incentive anyone can ever offer me to fight to stay in this competition.” He kisses Enjolras, gently. “I’ll be here as long as I can,” he promises Enjolras. “I won’t go down without a fight, at least.”

“I really fucking like you,” Enjolras says, sighs against Grantaire’s lips, and feels more than sees Grantaire smile. 

“Yeah, I know,” Grantaire replies quietly. “I really fucking like you too, you have no idea, E.”

“I think I have _some_ idea,” Enjolras says easily. “You keep winning challenges for me.”

Grantaire huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well, I’m a huge believer in sweeping my boyfriend off his feet by showing off my culinary prowess.”

“Boyfriend?” Enjolras echoes, feeling a giddy sense of happiness bubbling up inside him. 

“If you think you can kiss me and tell me you fucking like me and not be my boyfriend, you’re obviously not thinking straight,” Grantaire says, but his voice is purposefully light, like he’s ready to brush it off as a joke if it backfires on him, careful in a way that he doesn’t really have to be, because there is no way Enjolras is ever going to say no to being his boyfriend, and Grantaire really should know that by now. 

Grantaire _has_ to know by now how Enjolras feels about him.

“Your boyfriend would really like to kiss you again,” Enjolras tells him, and does exactly just that.

They don’t get the early night they were envisioning of getting.

—

**(WEEK NINE)**

“Grantaire, Eponine, Joly,” Valjean says, “the three of you won the team challenge last week. That means you get an advantage in this upcoming team challenge. The three of you get to choose your partner for the next team challenge.”

Grantaire reaches out to grab Enjolras’ hand quickly before his other hand shoots up. “Enjolras!” he yells. “I’m choosing Enjolras! I get boyfriend dibs! Anyone who wants him has to fight me!”

“Oh God,” Enjolras says, and feels his face flush up. 

They’d spoken to the producers about their relationship just before leaving to the airport, and had been given the green light to do as they like, and he’d been expecting maybe a little bit of hand-holding, and maybe more flirty banter, but of course Grantaire isn’t going to be subtle about it at all, of course. He doesn’t mind, though, because Grantaire is grinning happily at him, and that’s more than enough reason for him to give Grantaire’s hand a quick squeeze. 

Joly and Eponine are both laughing. The three judges look amused too.

“We figured,” Joly says. 

Joly and Eponine end up partnering each other, because the last team challenge proved that they work together very well under pressure, and Enjolras, of course, ends up with Grantaire. 

Grantaire hasn’t let go of his hand yet, and doesn’t really seem to be inclined to let go anytime soon, which makes Enjolras smile. 

The challenge is simple - they have three hours to explore the Rome in search for inspiration to create a dish that encompasses what Italy means to them. There isn’t an elimination on the back of this challenge, but two winning teams will have the chance to fight for guaranteed immunity. Enjolras had the chance to cook for immunity once, but it didn’t work out in his favour. This far back in the competition, immunity from elimination would be an amazing advantage, and while Enjolras generally has enough faith in his culinary skills to be confident that he’ll be able to make it out of pressure tests unscathed, he really wants that advantage.

“You have your frowny game face on, Chicken,” Grantaire teases. “What’s the plan?”

“I don’t have a game face,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes. He’s had this exact conversation with Grantaire more than enough times. “I also don’t have a plan. What would _you_ do?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Inspiration strikes when it wants to strike. There’s no point searching for it,” he tells Enjolras, and then grins. “I would go on a leisurely stroll to take in the sights with my boyfriend instead.”

“Your boyfriend wants to win the guaranteed immunity,” Enjolras mutters, but gives in and leans in to press his lips to Grantaire’s cheeks. “But having our first date ever in Rome sounds really good too, so yeah, we’ll go with your plan.”

He catches the camera crew grinning at them and says to Grantaire, “You do realise that all of this might go on national TV, right?”

“Mm hmm,” Grantaire hums, and brings their joined hands up to brush a kiss over Enjolras’ knuckles. “This way the whole nation can know that I completely lucked out and somehow successfully tricked you into being my boyfriend.” He faces the camera and mouths _my boyfriend_ into it while pointing at Enjolras.

“You’re ridiculous,” Enjolras says fondly. 

“Ridiculously smitten by you,” Grantaire returns easily, and tugs Enjolras along. 

Because they don’t have a fixed destination in mind, Grantaire comes up with a system where they take turns choosing which way to go when the paths fork. He lets Grantaire ramble about architecture and art, and in turn tells Grantaire about that one time he came to Rome with his parents when he was still a kid. They stop by to buy pastries and bread to sample and take about a gazillion selfies on both their phones. Grantaire buys him flowers when they pass a lady selling flowers by the street. 

He learns that Grantaire speaks Italian when they go into random markets and stores to talk to the locals, and is suitably impressed. 

“I know how to say all the dirty things too,” Grantaire says softly enough that Enjolras is relatively sure the filming crew wouldn’t pick up. “I’ll show you later, after we win.”

‘After we win’ turns out to be never, because three hours passed faster than the both of them imagined it would, and when they get back to the kitchen they’ll be cooking in, they have a half-formed planned and not enough ingredients to execute it. Grantaire suggests they wing it and make pasta and bread because it’s what they’re good at doing, and Enjolras, for lack of a better alternative, agrees. 

The actual cooking is chaotic, at best. Enjolras keeps getting in Grantaire’s way, and Grantaire keeps bumping into Enjolras. At one point, Enjolras almost knocked an entire tray of bread off Grantaire’s hands. He burns his hand cooking the sauce for the pasta because he got distracted tasting the bread Grantaire made to make sure that their dish is somewhat cohesive. 

The whole thing is a disaster, basically.

“The both of you look like you’re struggling,” Javert comments as he comes by their bench. “It’s actually really surprising. I would’ve thought that the both of you would be the team ahead of everyone else. Everyone has been saying that this is Enjolras’ pin to win. Is it really, Enjolras?”

Enjolras feels his throat close up, the sudden pressure of everyone’s expectations of him weighing his tongue down. He _can’t speak_ , and that doesn’t really happen often. He thinks that even if he could manage to force words out, he doesn’t really know what he could say in reply to that.

“It’s just a bit of a hiccup, chef,” Grantaire cuts in easily for Enjolras, smiling brightly at Javert, determined not to let Javert get to them. “We just need to reccaliberate. The dish tastes great, we’ll be fine.”

“I hope so,” Javert says, peering dubiously at them. “It would be very disappointing for us if the dream team serves up a bad dish.”

They don’t produce a bad dish. Aesthetically, it looks beautiful. The seafood pasta Enjolras made is rich with colours, and the bread Grantaire made has a good crust to it and is just the right shade of golden brown. It looks like a good dish, a dish Enjolras probably wouldn’t mind serving when he opens his restaurant one day. It tastes good too, Enjolras has tried every element of it, and they all work together great. 

It’s not a bad dish, except Enjolras knows they could do better, that they _have done better_ , and he knows that serving this dish up to the judges is not going to impress any of them. It’s not a bad dish, it’s just an _alright_ dish, and that feels worse. 

He keeps hearing the words _Enjolras’ pin to win_ in his head. He got into the Top 24 on a pasta dish. He got into the Top 15 on the back of a pasta dish. He’s the resident _pasta guy_. This is his week to shine, this is _his_ immunity pin to win, and he knows that if he’d put in some focus into the planning of this dish, knows that if he’d sat down with Grantaire to talk strategy and discuss textural elements of the dish, they would’ve done so much better. But instead, he’d let himself get distracted by the way Grantaire’s hand felt in his, by the lopsided grin Grantaire had on his face as they walked aimlessly around the street, by the way Grantaire had excitedly chattered on about art.

He’s not here to be distracted, he’s here to win the competition, and Grantaire is—

Grantaire is very good at distracting him. Grantaire _loves_ distracting him with his hands and his lips and his words. Grantaire is completely unapologetic about distracting him. 

He can tell by the slight frown Valjean has on his face when they bring him the dish that he isn’t impressed. Javert arches an eyebrow at them. Fantine, kind as always, smiles at them and thanks them for the lovely dish, and dismisses them so that the judges could taste in private. 

“Fuck,” Enjolras breathes out the moment they leave the room. 

Grantaire clasps his shoulders gently, an act of comfort, but Enjolras shrugs him off and starts pacing the corridor. 

“It’s not that bad,” Grantaire tries to reason. “This isn’t an elimination-”

“That’s not the point!” Enjolras snaps, his frustration slowly surfacing. “I wanted to win that immunity pin, you _knew_ I wanted to win it, and the dish that we just put together? That isn’t a winning dish, that’s not even close to being a winning dish. We didn’t even _try_ to put up a winning dish, and that’s not me. I always try to put up the best dish I can.”

Grantaire is staring at him, lips parted slightly in surprise, and Enjolras has the sudden realisation that he’s never done this, hasn’t lost his temper even once yet since he got on the show, hasn’t yelled at anyone even though there have been times where he’d really wanted to. He is suddenly conscious of the cameras that are still focused on them, still rolling, still capturing this moment, and he should apologise to Grantaire for losing his cool, but he doesn’t.

“Are you saying it’s my fault that we served up a dish you’re not happy with?” Grantaire asks, voice even.

Enjolras juts his chin out defiantly. “Yes.”

“I made a _suggestion_ ,” Grantaire says. “If you didn’t like it, you could’ve said no, you could’ve gone on and came up with something better, suggested one of your planning sessions, _anything_ really, and I would’ve gone with it. But you _didn’t_. You okayed the plan and you had a great time.”

“That’s the point, I shouldn’t have!” Enjolras says. “I’m not here to fool around with you, I’m here to win the competition.”

He knows instinctively the moment the words leave his lips that he shouldn’t have said them. He wants to take them back. He wants to turn time back and rewind the moment so he never says them. Most of all, he wants the hurt in Grantaire’s eyes to go away. 

“Alright, then,” Grantaire says quietly, looking away from Enjolras. “Have it your way. I won’t distract you from winning the goddamn competition anymore.”

“Grantaire-” Enjolras calls out feebly, but Grantaire turns and storms away.

Enjolras doesn’t see him until later, when the results are being announced. 

Grantaire takes care to stand apart from him, far enough that their bodies aren’t touching, and the distance makes Enjolras ache, because it’s never been like this between them before. He’s never really noticed until now, but there was always a point of physical contact between them, be it their shoulders knocking into each other, or the back of Grantaire’s hand brushing against his leg, and Enjolras misses it now.

They aren’t one of the top two teams, but the results don’t come as a surprise to Enjolras, and honestly? He really doesn’t care about that right now. All he wants to do is to apologise to Grantaire, to make sure Grantaire knows that he hadn’t meant what he said, to make things right between them again.

Grantaire leaves to go back to the hotel in the car Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet are in, and it’s a clear sign that he doesn’t want to talk to Enjolras. He gets a few concerned looks from the others, Cosette and Combeferre in particular, but none of them broach the subject, which Enjolras is grateful for.

He doesn’t see Grantaire at dinner. 

“Bossuet caught a bug. Grantaire volunteered to stay to watch him while we ate,” Joly says, and it’s clear from the way he is shifting in his seat that he’s lying. 

Enjolras ends up pushing his food around his plate, appetite waned, not eating anything even though the general opinion about the food is that it’s great. 

He thinks about how Grantaire is going out of his way to avoid him, thinks about how Grantaire is going to keep avoiding him, wonders if Grantaire would move out of their room in the MasterChef house when they get back just so he wouldn’t have to see Enjolras. There’s nothing keeping Grantaire here, not the competition, not the learning process, not the people. 

He excuses himself from the table and goes back to the room.

It turns out to be the right thing to do because he catches Grantaire grabbing clothes and toiletries from his bag when he goes into their room.

“Grantaire-”

“Don’t worry, I’m not staying. You can have the room to yourself, Grantaire-free,” Grantaire says brusquely, and zips his bag with more force than it really needs. “I’ll be in Bossuet’s room.”

“Grantaire, please,” Enjolras says, and reaches out to touch Grantaire’s arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t- I was frustrated and I took my frustration out on you. I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean any of that. I’m sorry.”

Grantaire shakes Enjolras’ hand off his arm. “No,” he says. “You were right. I was distracting you from the competition. I won’t do it again.”

“Grantaire-” He trails off, not knowing what to say. He settles for saying, “You don’t have to leave, I will. Montparnasse has a room to himself. I’ll room with him tonight.”

“If it makes you happy,” Grantaire says flatly.

Enjolras wants to tell him that it doesn’t. He wants to tell Grantaire that seeing him unhappy does _nothing_ to make him happy. He wants to tell Grantaire that he never wants to make him unhappy again, ever. 

He settles for nodding and packing up his stuff.

—

Grantaire is working too slowly. 

There is no heat behind his eyes, no crinkle at the corner of his eyes to indicate that he’s having fun cooking the way he always does, and there’s completely no indication that his heart is in the challenge, and Enjolras knows even without checking on any of the other contestants in the elimination challenge that Grantaire is going to lose. His knife work on his potatoes is just this side of sloppy, Enjolras isn’t even really sure Grantaire has cleaned the mussels out properly, and Grantaire doesn’t do that, Grantaire is careful about things like that because Enjolras keeps harping on about it, and the only reason he’s doing it now must be because- 

_‘He’s cooking to lose,’_ Enjolras thinks, and the realisation makes him freeze in his place on the balcony.

There’s nothing keeping Grantaire here — not the competition, not the learning process, not the friends he’s made… 

Not Enjolras.

He snaps back to focus when Fantine makes her way to Grantaire’s bench. 

“You’re lagging behind today, Grantaire,” she says, tone kind and concerned, the way she always sounds, even when she’s admonishing someone. 

Grantaire’s laugh sounds bitter to Enjolras’ ears. 

“I’m just not in a good place right now, Chef,” he tells Fantine, mustering a sad smile as he flips the carrots in his pan.

He doesn’t really know what makes him do it; the sad slope of Grantaire’s shoulders, maybe, or the way he looks so tired, and disappointed, and _defeated_. Enjolras knows he’s not supposed to leave the balcony, he’s never seen anyone leave the balcony without permission before, but doesn’t really care about anything else except putting the fire back in Grantaire’s eyes again before it’s too late. 

He all but runs his way down the flight of stairs and to Grantaire, spinning him around to face away from the stove, grip on his shoulders tight and firm. Javert says something from the front of the room, but Enjolras isn’t concentrating on anything that isn’t Grantaire right now. 

“You promised me you would fight to stay,” Enjolras whispers fiercely. “You _promised_ me, Grantaire, and I know what I said hurt you, and you have all the right to be angry at me, but _you promised me_ you wouldn’t go down without a fight, so fuck, please, just do that for me, win this one for me, please.”

Grantaire doesn’t say anything, just stares at Enjolras, and he knows that his voice has gone soft and pleading when he says, “I know you have no reason to, but stay for me, please.”

It’s all he manages to get out before Javert advances on them, and chases him back up to the balcony. 

By the time he makes his way up slowly to the balcony, Grantaire has already binned his subpar potatoes, and is starting a fresh batch, knife flying over the chopping board. Grantaire also has a fresh pan on the stove and is remaking his cream sauce, and it looks _right_ , looks better than the watery version he had before, at any rate. He’s also pushed his bowl of mussels closer to the sink, probably going to clean them out properly this time. 

Grantaire’s doing what he does best — _multitasking_ — and Enjolras’ breath comes a little easier. 

He cuts it a little close, but by the time Valjean calls out that their 60 minutes is over, Grantaire has a complete dish plated out, and it looks just as good as anyone else’s dish, as far as Enjolras can tell. He hopes that Grantaire’s cooked the mussels for long enough, hopes that Grantaire’s sauce isn’t missing any of its components, hopes that his _frites_ are just the right balance of moist and crispy, hopes that Grantaire did well enough to escape elimination. 

The rest of them get sent back to the hotel to wait for the results of the elimination, and they all congregate in his and Montparnasse’s room. 

Enjolras has never felt so nervous over an arrival before. He paces around and is restless and snappy at everyone else the whole time, which is unfair because Joly is worried about Bossuet and Musichetta too, and he isn’t losing his temper all around. Enjolras will apologise to them later, when Grantaire is back, when he knows for certain that Grantaire is safe. Combeferre will make sure he does, he knows that much at least.

About thirty minutes after they arrive in the hotel, there is a knock on the door. Enjolras freezes mid-pace, and even though he’s the closest to the door, he can’t bring himself to make his way there to open it. Combeferre crosses the room instead, squeezing Enjolras’ shoulder once as he passes him, and opens the door. 

Eponine. Musichetta. Bahorel.

 _Grantaire_. 

He lunges at him, wraps his arms around Grantaire’s waist and clings on tightly, presses his face to the crook of Grantaire’s neck and lets out shuddery breaths, and he’s maybe crying a little in relief, and he knows that the cameras are still rolling, but he can’t bring himself to care because Grantaire is hugging him back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice slightly muffled. “Don’t do that again, Christ, don’t ever try to cook yourself out of the competition again.”

“I won’t,” Grantaire says quietly, and his arms tighten around Enjolras. “I’m sorry I tried, Chicken.” 

He reluctantly lets go of Grantaire after a bit, because Joly and Montparnasse are waiting to congratulate him on coming back, but he stays close to Grantaire for most of the night. A few glasses of champagne down, Grantaire starts to yawn, and Cosette suggests that he turns in early because he’s had a long day. 

Enjolras’ shoulders almost sag with relief when Grantaire tugs on his sleeves and says, “Let’s go to bed, E.”

—

**(WEEK TEN)**

“One elimination every day, this is crazy,” Enjolras breathes out, stuttering on a breath, and he’s frustrated about it —he does pretty well under stress, he doesn’t actively seek it out or particularly enjoy it— but it doesn’t reflect in his voice, because Grantaire has very, very talented fingers, and an even more impressive mouth. “Why would they do this to us? As if it wasn’t bad enough sending Bossuet home in the middle of Italy Week. I bet this whole elimination thing is Javert’s idea. All the bad ideas are Javert’s ideas.”

Grantaire pulls off Enjolras’ cock with a long-suffering sigh, and draws his fingers slowly out. Enjolras barely stops himself from letting out a whine in protest.

“You are going to ruin sex for me,” Grantaire tells him, and he’s shaking his head, but his lips are crooked in a smile, so Enjolras knows he doesn’t mean it. “What am I supposed to think if you keep talking about Javert while I’m trying to get you off?”

Enjolras freezes. “That’s not- It’s not-” He lets out a sigh, tugs Grantaire close and nuzzles into the crook of his neck. “It’s Semi-Final Week. I’m just…really stressed.”

Grantaire presses a kiss to the side of his head. “I know you are,” he says. “We don’t have to do anything, you know that right? We could just, I don’t know, study recipes, if you want to. I would be happy just studying recipes with you.”

“We could cuddle while we study?” Enjolras suggests hopefully. “And I’ll make it up to you once Semi-Final Week is over?”

“Liar,” Grantaire says, flicking his nose. “Once the Semis are over, you’ll be stressed out over Finals.” He presses his palm over Enjolras's mouth to stop him from replying to that immediately. “And that’s fine, I’m not complaining, this is me not complaining because that’s fine. I like spending time with you no matter what we end up doing. Okay?”

Enjolras looks down pointedly at Grantaire’s hand still covering his mouth, and then surges forward to kiss Grantaire when Grantaire draws his hand back, pulling Grantaire down with him as he reclines back on the bed.

“I thought we were going to study?” Grantaire asks, not bothering to stifle his gasp when Enjolras rolls his hips up and their cocks rub against each other’s. 

“We can study like this,” Enjolras allows, and reaches down to wrap his hand around their cocks. “Ginger, trout, butter, flour, blue cheese, cauliflower, olives, chicken liver, and chocolate in a mystery box. What would you cook?” 

Grantaire huffs out a strangled laugh. “Jesus fuck, E, you are the most fucking ridiculous person I’ve ever known.”

Enjolras hums against Grantaire’s throat. “The clock’s ticking, Chef,” Enjolras says, because he loves the way Grantaire always shivers against him when he calls him _Chef_. 

“Chocolate tart, maybe with a blue cheese cream,” Grantaire gets out between kisses. “I don’t know, I’ll probably caramelise some ginger ribbons-”

—

**(WEEK ELEVEN)**

“I want you to win tomorrow’s elimination for me,” Enjolras says that night, when he’s curled up against Grantaire, legs tangled together under the blankets, warm and comfortable. 

Grantaire sighs. “Enjolras-”

“You’ve won challenges for me before,” Enjolras says quietly, clutching at Grantaire’s t-shirt. “Win this one for me.”

Grantaire doesn’t say anything for a long while. 

“I’ve only ever really wanted to stay in the competition because you were in it,” Grantaire says finally, and Enjolras has always suspected that it was the case, but hearing Grantaire confirm it makes the dull pain in his chest intensify just a little. “I wouldn’t want to stay anyway if you left. I wouldn’t have anything to fight for. You win the elimination for me tomorrow, instead.”

He feels his eyes prick with tears. He doesn’t want to cry, because if he starts, it might take a long time for him to stop, and it would be stupid to be spending their last night together in the MasterChef house like this, wasting it on tears. It doesn’t change the fact that one of them is going home tomorrow. 

“I hate elimination challenges,” Enjolras says, and isn’t proud of the way his voice cracks in the middle. 

“I know, Chicken,” Grantaire says, and presses his lips to the crown of Enjolras’ head. “Win it for me. Win this whole competition for me.”

Enjolras’ throat burns when he swallows, but he knows from the way Grantaire’s thumb keeps tracing tiny circles on the small of his back that Grantaire is waiting for an answer, so he says, voice hushed, “Okay.”

—

After, someone from the camera crew comes up to him and says, “I’m not supposed to show you this, but you look really upset and I think this would help.” She pulls Enjolras to the side, where a camera is set up. “I just filmed Grantaire’s exit interview,” she tells him, and plays it for him.

He’s technically only been away from Grantaire for fifteen minutes, but he feels the loss terribly. There is an ache in his chest that he can’t rationalise with anything except that _he misses Grantaire_ , and when Grantaire’s face floods the screen, Enjolras almost reaches out to touch.

“I don’t know what to say,” Grantaire is saying on the screen. “This whole MasterChef journey has been incredible. I’ve learnt so much throughout the competition, about food, and about myself too. I’ve done things I never knew I could do, I’ve made new friends, I’ve…” He laughs a little. “I’ve beaten all odds and found _love_.”

Enjolras’ breath catches in his throat, and he’s crying now, again. 

“So, no,” Grantaire continues, and he’s smiling now, looking straight into the camera, “I don’t think I’ve lost anything at all because I’ve won all the right things. Where I’m concerned, I’m the biggest winner in this competition.”

—

**(WEEK TWELVE)**

He’s never really been close to his family, so when the judges announce that they’ll be bringing in their families in for the finals, Enjolras isn’t too fussed about it. 

Cosette is already crying when Marius comes back into the MasterChef kitchen. They’d only just been married for a month before they’d gotten pass auditions together, and it’s been six weeks since Marius was eliminated from the show. 

Combeferre seems to look a little overwhelmed when his parents walk in next to hug him tightly, and Enjolras remembers Combeferre telling them that his parents weren’t all that supportive of him putting med school on hold to do cook instead. They look happy for him now, and Enjolras flashes a smile at Combeferre when he catches Combeferre’s eye. 

“Enjolras,” Fantine says. “Excited?”

Enjolras shrugs. “My parents and I… We’ve never been really close, but it would still be good to see them, I suppose.”

“Well then, I’m afraid we’re going to have to disappoint you, because we didn’t bring your parents here for you today,” Valjean tells him with a grin. “We bought you someone we thought you would appreciate having around more, someone who would make you want to cook the best dish you’ve ever cooked.” He motions to the door.

Enjolras turns to look, and his breath catches when Grantaire walks in. He breaks into a run when he sees Enjolras, wraps his arms around him and twirls him around. 

“Oh my God,” Enjolras breathes out when Grantaire puts him down. “God, Grantaire, I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

Grantaire laughs. “It’s been two days,” he tells Enjolras, but he doesn’t let go of Enjolras’ hand. 

“That’s two days too many,” Enjolras says, and then kisses him.

It’s completely ridiculous how much he’s missed Grantaire in the two days since Grantaire got eliminated. He finds himself reaching across the bed absentmindedly while he’s flipping through a cookbook to hold Grantaire’s hand. It feels odd having the entire duvet to himself, to not have to cling onto it for dear life so Grantaire doesn’t hog the entire thing. He misses the way Grantaire is _always there_ , but he’s here now, and the entire competition could go to shit and Enjolras probably wouldn’t care. 

“Alright, enough with the PDA, Enjolras and Grantaire,” Javert says, and Enjolras pulls away and lets Grantaire straighten his apron for him. Grantaire doesn’t go far, though, just settles behind Enjolras and hooks his chin over Enjolras’ shoulder, arms firmly wrapped around Enjolras’ waist. “Time to hear what you’re cooking for today.”

“In just two hours and thirty minutes, one of you is going to be crowned the next MasterChef,” Fantine says.

Enjolras’ hand tightens in Grantaire’s. 

“How much do you want to win this?” Grantaire whispers in his ear. 

“So much,” Enjolras admits. “More because you’re here. I want to win this for you.”

The challenge is simple — they each have to cook a three course meal inspired by their loved ones, open pantry, no restrictions, no staple ingredient. Their family members are allowed down on the floor, but they aren’t to assist physically beyond moving things out of the way.

They make their way into the pantry hand-in-hand, and Grantaire holds his basket for him while he rummages through the pantry for the ingredients he needs. 

Grantaire peers down at the basket. “Ginger, shallots, white pepper… Going Asian, are we?”

Enjolras smiles. “Yes, we are.”

“You know you could just tell me what you’re cooking, and I would be able to help out more than just carrying your basket for you, right?” Grantaire asks, shaking his head a little. “ _Rice wine_?” 

“Rice wine,” Enjolras confirms, setting the bottle down in the basket gently and smiles to himself as he heads to the poultry section, because this is going to be where Grantaire puts it all together.

It takes Grantaire a minute or two, but when he does, he lets out a huge peal of laughter and tugs Enjolras in by his apron to press his lips quickly to Enjolras’. “You’re a dork, Chicken,” he tells Enjolras.

Because Grantaire isn’t allowed to actively help him out in the challenge, he settles for pestering Enjolras into letting him taste the food every time Enjolras does something new to it and making comments. He’s trying his best to be useful, trying his best to help Enjolras win this challenge, snapping him back to focus when Enjolras gets distracted going through worst case scenarios in his head, and Enjolras suddenly remembers the _“I won’t distract you from winning the goddamn competition anymore”_ Grantaire had said in Italy, remembers how close he’d gotten to losing Grantaire, and has to take a deep breath to centre himself. 

“E, are you alright?” Grantaire asks, hand on his back. 

“Yeah, I am,” Enjolras assures him. “I’m just really glad you’re here.”

Grantaire grins at him. “Jesus, I’ve been gone for two days and you’ve turned into a romantic, you.”

“I watched your exit interview,” Enjolras blurts out, and Grantaire’s eyes widen. “And, just- Me too.” He presses their foreheads together and says, because he’s been keeping it to himself for long enough now, and he wants Grantaire to know right now, “I found love, too.” 

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” Fantine says, as she walks over. 

“No, you’re not,” Grantaire answers. “We got all the important things out before you got here.”

“Good,” Fantine says, smiling like she knows. “What main are you cooking for us today, Enjolras?”

“Chinese style Drunken Chicken, Chef,” Enjolras says. “There isn’t enough time for me to cook the entire chicken, so I’m poaching the thighs.”

“Sounds good. Smells delicious as well.” She peers over the counter. “Will you be serving it with rice?”

“Yes,” Enjolras answers.

“And in what way is this dish inspired by Grantaire?” 

Enjolras smiles. “He calls me _Chicken_ a lot,” he tells Fantine, “so there wasn’t really any other protein I would’ve chosen to cook with. And Grantaire loves his wine-”

“-almost as much as he loves his _Chicken_ ,” Grantaire finishes for Enjolras. “The human, not the food.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but turns over to smile at Grantaire. “So, yeah, the choice of dish was really kind of obvious.”

He sets the chicken to poach in the wine, and looks up to check the clock. He moves on to grab a new pan to start making his entrée. He’s still mostly on track, but that doesn’t do much to settle his nerves.

“Dessert first,” Grantaire reminds him. “It’ll need time to set.”

But Grantaire does, Grantaire helps to settle his nerves. 

—

He hates _not knowing_ , and that feeling is multiplied tenfold right now because he can actually feel himself dying a little inside.

Cosette has a total score of 76 out of 90, beating Combeferre’s 73. Enjolras knows he did well in his entrée and his main, but he’s never been a dessert person, that’s Grantaire’s thing, and he knows he had Grantaire hovering around behind him while he was cooking the shortbread and making the ice cream, but Cosette’s always been good at making desserts, at _everything_ , actually, and Enjolras is pretty sure his doesn’t even begin to compare. He hopes that his entrée and his main were both good enough to give him a good lead in marks. 

His stomach churns and he tightens his grip on Grantaire’s fingers.

“Nervous, Enjolras?” Valjean asks, smiling just enough to rattle Enjolras’ nerves all over again. 

“Yes,” Enjolras manages to say.

“He’s nearly breaking my fingers,” Grantaire adds. “You might want to get to it soon. 

Valjean reveals his marks for his entrée — 25.

Fantine reveals his marks for his main — 28.

“You need 24 points to win this competition,” Javert tells him. “That’s an average of 8 points from each of us. How confident are you?”

“Not as much as I would like,” Enjolras admits, and Grantaire squeezes his hand. 

“Enjolras,” Javert says gravely, “we scored your dessert 25 points.”

Enjolras forgets how to breathe. 

He can hear Fantine speaking, telling him that he’s the new MasterChef, that he’s won a hundred thousand dollars and a book publishing deal, but all of that doesn’t matter right now, because he can hear Grantaire’s breathless laughter, can feel Grantaire’s arms tight around him, can hear Grantaire saying _oh my God, my boyfriend is a MasterChef_ , and really, more than anything else, _this_ is his greatest prize from MasterChef.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [here on Tumblr](http://sarah-yyy.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


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